Warhorse

By Timothy Zahn

The Tampy aliens’ living spaceships are far more powerful than humanity’s non-biological technology. Can they—and should they—be tamed?
Throughout the universe, space horses are among the most coveted of species. They are starfaring creatures with telekinetic abilities, tamed and controlled by the Tampy aliens—who aren’t willing to share their understanding of the creatures. Despite diplomatic government intervention, human poachers are determined to capture and control the giant beings. With a tenuous peace treaty in place between the Tampy and humans, the first jointly helmed space horse will undertake its first mission. But will the two races be able to work together—or will their peace break down into all-out war?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453272039

Timothy Zahn

Timothy Zahn is the New York Times–bestselling science fiction author of more than forty novels, as well as many novellas and short stories. Best known for his contributions to the expanded Star Wars universe of books, including the Thrawn trilogy, Zahn also wrote the Cobra series and the young adult Dragonback series—the first novel of which, Dragon and Thief, was an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. Zahn currently resides in Oregon with his family.

Book preview

Warhorse

Timothy Zahn

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

A Biography of Timothy Zahn

Chapter 1

TWO HOURS EARLIER, THE C.S.S. Dryden had killed its rotation, moving for the first time in fifteen days back to zero-gee. An hour earlier, the last course change had been implemented, bringing the ship into as close a direct vector with the target planet of Arachne as possible. And now, with five minutes remaining on the clock, the bright red mass-line had finally appeared at the center of the helmtank and was beginning its leisurely stretch toward the edge.

They were almost there. Almost to Arachne…and the Tampies who would be waiting for them.

Captain Haml Roman gazed at the mass-line a moment longer, wishing one last time that someone else’s ship could have been tapped for this mission. Appearances and assurances apart, the outcome was about as much in doubt as Arachne’s orbit, and it soured his stomach to have to be part of the charade. But neither the Senate nor the Admiralty had ever been in the habit of asking his opinion on such matters. Probably just as well.

Four minutes to go. Reaching over to his intercom board, Roman keyed for his passenger’s cabin; but even as he did so the door to Roman’s right slid open and Ambassador Pankau floated onto the bridge. Captain, he nodded, giving himself a push that sent him gliding across the bridge in Roman’s direction. We have an ETA yet?

I was just about to call you, Mr. Ambassador, Roman nodded back, wondering distantly how Pankau managed to maintain that stiff dignity of his even while floating like a child’s balloon across the room. We’ll be making breakout in just under four minutes.

Pankau caught the back of Roman’s chair to stop his momentum and set his feet firmly into one of the velgrip patches in the deck. How long to Arachne from there?

Shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Maybe less, depending on how close in we get before breakout.

Pankau snorted gently, but he was clearly experienced enough to know the uncertainties were beyond Roman’s control. At thirty hours per light-year, the Mitsuushi StarDrive chewed up an astronomical unit every 1.7 seconds, and even with computer control a ship was lucky to make breakout within a half-million kilometers of its projected target. Do your best, the ambassador said, almost grudgingly. And then I want a minimum-time course to Arachne. No point dragging this out any longer than absolutely necessary.

At the exec’s station Lieutenant Commander Trent threw Pankau a sour look, one which the other fortunately missed. Understood, Mr. Ambassador, Roman said, keeping his own voice and features firmly in polite/neutral mode.

Pankau nodded curtly and fell silent, and together they watched the steady lengthening of the mass-line. It was almost to the edge of the helmtank when, abruptly, the bridge lights dimmed and half of the main status board went from green to red and then to dark blue.

The Dryden had arrived.

Lieutenant Nussmeyer? Roman invited, keying on the main display. The screen came to life, blazing with stars and, off center to the left, the red-orange globe of Arachne’s sun.

Dead on target, sir, Nussmeyer reported, peering at his helm display. We’re just over seventy thousand kilometers upslope of Arachne.

Upslope; which meant that the sun’s gravity would be helping, instead of hindering, their approach. Very good, Lieutenant. Plot in a minimum-time course at— he glanced at Pankau. Keep it under 1.5 gees.

Aye, sir. Approximately ninety minutes to orbit, then.

Very good. Execute.

The acceleration alert began its warbling, and Roman listened to the clicks and creaks as the bridge began swiveling into position for forward linear acceleration. The number and decibel level of the squeaks had been on the rise lately, and he sent up a quick prayer that the equipment would hold out at least until they could make port again. Trying to handle even a relatively small warship like the Dryden from a misaligned bridge could get nasty very quickly. Will you be sending any messages before we make orbit? he asked, looking again at Pankau.

The other was squinting at the main screen, which now held the small crescent shape of a planet dead center. Probably depends on whether the Tampy delegation’s still topside or whether they’ve gone down and sent their ship home, he said. Can you get any more magnification on that thing?

Roman turned back to his console, feeling an odd stirring of anticipation as he keyed the screen for full mags. If the Tampy ship was indeed still standing by…

The small crescent jumped in size to fill the entire screen; stabilized and enlarged again to become a flat strip of mottled planetary edge. The camera started a slow scan.…

And there it was, silhouetted against the lighted section: a small, dark rectangular/cylindrical shape, trailing behind a similar but much larger cylinder. The Tampy ship…and its accompanying space horse.

The screen’s scale came on, locked and stabilized, and someone on the bridge gave a low whistle. Nine hundred twenty meters long, Pankau read, a touch of awe seeping through the professional coolness in his voice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a space horse quite that big before.

The average is supposed to be eight hundred, Roman agreed. Even preoccupied, he could hear the underlevel of schoolboy excitement in his voice.

Pankau obviously heard it too, and Roman could feel the ambassador’s gaze shift from the screen to him. Your first space horse, Captain?

It was, fortunately, difficult to blush in zero-gee. It’s the first one I’ll have a chance to see close up, yes, Roman conceded. "I have seen them from a distance, of course."

Pankau grunted. It would be rather difficult for the commander of a bordership to totally avoid them. His eyes shifted back to the main screen and his lips puckered. I suppose I ought to go ahead and talk to them. At least let them know we’re here.

Roman nodded. He reached for the comm laser control; remembered just in time and keyed the radio instead. The Tampies had never developed the laser themselves, and had shown complete disinterest in acquiring the necessary technology from the Cordonale. It’s all yours, Ambassador, Roman said.

Pankau cleared his throat. "This is Ambassador Pankau, aboard the Cordonale Star Ship Dryden, he called. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

The response was immediate; clearly, the Tampies had already noted the Dryden’s arrival. I hear, the alien voice replied.

The whiny, grating, set-the-teeth-on-edge alien voice. Roman clamped his teeth together hard, trying to remember that the Tampies didn’t do this on purpose.

I am Ccist-paa; I speak for the Tamplissta, the other continued. I greet you.

And I you, Pankau said, his tone and manner showing none of the reflex irritation Roman felt. But then, Pankau was far more used to putting up with Tampy voices. I come with open hands and goodwill, and bring the Supreme Senate’s desire that our differences here be resolved as quickly as possible. He hesitated, just the barest fraction of a second. Can you tell me if there’s been any change in the situation in the past fifteen days?

There was a hint of resentment in Pankau’s voice, a feeling Roman could well understand. Irritating voices and mannerisms were something professional diplomats learned to live with; lack of adequate and timely information was something else entirely. Running on the Mitsuushi for fifteen days, cut off from access to the Cordonale’s network of planet-based tachyon transceivers, everything the Dryden knew about the trouble on Arachne was two weeks out of date. The Tampy mission, in contrast, would have been in contact with their own colony here up until the time they’d had to leave their home port…which had probably been no more than a few hours ago.

And in this case, the time-lag turned out to be significant indeed. There has been change, Ccist-paa said with what sounded like a wheezing sigh. Some of the humans of the Arachne settlement have attacked the Tamplissta of the Tyari.

Pankau clucked his tongue gently. Any fatalities?

No humans were injured. Two Tamplissta have died.

Roman grimaced. It was a pattern that was repeating itself more and more frequently these days on the half-dozen worlds that the Cordonale shared with the Tampies: simmering confrontations boiling over into sharp episodes of violence…and always the Tampies who got the short end.

I’m sorry, Pankau said. We’ll reach your ship in approximately ninety minutes. I’d be honored if you would allow me to transport you to the surface.

The honor is mine, Ccist-paa said. However, there is no need. My lander is capable of providing me with transport.

Ah, Pankau murmured. "In that event…perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me transport."

There was a short silence from the Tampy end. We have no filter masks aboard, Ccist-paa said.

I have one of my own. Pankau hesitated, glanced down at Roman. It seems to me that, in the light of recent events, it might be good for us to discuss this matter in private before we talk to the settlers themselves.

Another pause. You are welcome to ride in my lander, Ccist-paa said, without any trace of emotion Roman could detect. If you will come alongside, my lander will join with your ship.

Thank you, Pankau said. I’ll look forward to seeing you.

Farewell, Ccist-paa said, and a moment later the aliens’ radio carrier cut off.

Roman keyed off the Dryden’s own radio. Behind him, the rising drone of the ship’s main fusion drive became a dull roar, and weight began to return. Drive activated, Captain, Nussmeyer confirmed unnecessarily.

Very good, Roman nodded. Start calculating the intercept vector to the Tampy ship whenever we’re close enough. He looked up at Pankau. The other’s face suddenly looked older; but then, it might have been merely the effect of returning weight. I hope you were prepared to deal with an outbreak of violence, he commented quietly.

Pankau made a face, his eyes still on the main display. "What else is there when humans and Tampies get together? he said sourly. He looked down at Roman, his gaze intensely thoughtful. It doesn’t bother you to be moving your ship in close to a space horse?" he asked, his tone oddly challenging.

Roman cocked an eyebrow up at him. Not really. Should it?

The searchlight gaze continued for a moment, then seemed to flicker out. There’s a lot of misinformation floating around concerning space horses, Pankau said obliquely. False and embellished stories, general paranoia—that sort of thing. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped off the velgrip. I’ll be down in my quarters, preparing my pack. Let me know when we reach the Tampy ship. He hesitated. Or if anything…unexpected…happens.

Roman glanced at Trent, saw the exec looking steadily back at him. I’ll do that, Mr. Ambassador.

Tampy lander away, Trent reported. Trajectory…right on the money.

Acknowledged, Roman nodded. Stay on it, Commander—make sure it stays that way.

The other threw Roman a glance before turning back to his displays. You think Pankau knows something we don’t? he asked over his shoulder.

Roman shrugged. "I’d guess he’s just being cautious. On the other hand, there has been at least one incidence of violence down there already."

Trent snorted. And since Pankau’s instructions are probably to give the Tampies whatever they want…?

Roman shrugged again. Ours is not to reason why, he quoted silently to himself. Though that didn’t mean any of them had to like it.

Ten kilometers away, their orbit just below the Dryden’s, the Tampy ship was pulling slowly away. Keep us with him, Lieutenant, Roman instructed Nussmeyer, studying the velocity readouts on his tactical display. A kilometer ahead of the alien ship floated the dark mass of their space horse.… On second thought, let’s do more than just catch up, he corrected himself suddenly. I want a closer look at that space horse. Slow approach, parallel course, and keep us about two kilometers away.

The background hum of quiet conversation abruptly cut off. Nussmeyer looked at Trent, and Trent looked at Roman. Something, Commander? Roman asked mildly.

Trent’s lip twitched. The Tampies aren’t going to be pleased if we spook their space horse.

That’s why we’re staying two kilometers away, Roman told him.

What if that’s not far enough?

Roman cocked an eyebrow and glanced around the bridge. "We’re not exactly going to be sneaking up on it, gentlemen. The Tampy Handlers should certainly be able to hold onto it, or at the very least figure out that they can’t in time to warn us off. Besides, space horses aren’t that skittish."

Trent’s expression was stony, but he turned back to his work without further argument. Roman watched his back for a moment, then shifted his attention to the helm. Lieutenant?

Maneuver plotted and fed in, Nussmeyer reported, his voice a little strained. Like Trent, he clearly wasn’t happy about this; unlike the executive officer, he wasn’t in a position to argue about it.

Very good, Roman said. Execute.

Through the hull plates the whisper of the drive on minimal power could be felt, bringing with it an equally faint echo of returning weight. Slowly, the Dryden moved forward and planetward, passing the Tampy ship and the kilometer of nearly invisible webbing.

And within a few minutes, they were paralleling the space horse itself.

It was something of a cliché—a twenty-year-old cliché, at that—that no camera or holo could truly capture the awesome majesty of a space horse. Roman had heard it probably a hundred times since joining the Starforce; but it was only now that he finally understood why everyone who’d seen one close up seemed so insistent on repeating the standard line.

The creature was huge, for starters. Nine hundred twenty meters long, built roughly like a cylinder with rounded ends and a slight taper from front to rear, the space horse totally dwarfed the small Tampy ship trailing it. The delicate webbing linking the two was essentially invisible, even on the telescope screen, but as the fibers caught the sunlight there were occasional glints from it that added a fairy tale sparkle to the scene.

It was the things that didn’t show up on long-range scans, though, that Roman found most fascinating. The space horse’s skin, for one: though in holos it invariably turned out a flat gray, it was in fact strangely iridescent, in a way that reminded him of silk. The sensory clusters, located in axial rings at either end of the cylinder, were likewise far more delicately colored than holos could adequately capture, with colors ranging from a pale blue to a dark burgundy to a surprisingly bright yellow to an utterly dead black.

Getting an absorption readout now, Trent reported into Roman’s thoughts. His voice, still disapproving, was nevertheless beginning to show some grudging interest. The skin seems to be soaking up about 96 percent of the sunlight hitting it, holding to that same percentage over the complete electromagnetic spectrum.

Roman nodded. Space horses were supposed to be able to absorb radiation of virtually any wavelength—one of the power sources that kept the huge beasts going. Any idea what that shimmer effect is? he asked the other.

Probably a diffraction effect caused by the dust sweat, Trent said. Or so goes the theory, anyway. Let me see if I can get some kind of direct reading on that.

He was reaching for his console when the Dryden’s alarms suddenly began to trill.

Anomalous motion, Captain, Nussmeyer snapped. Unbidden, the main screen shifted to a tactical display, the laser targeting crosshairs swinging up over and past the bulk of the space horse.

Easy, gentlemen, Roman said, flicking over to the indicated screen even as his muscles tensed with anticipation. The anomalous-motion program had originally been designed to detect slow-moving ambush missiles; but this close to a space horse… I doubt we’re being threatened here.

It’s a meteor, sir, Trent identified it even as the telescope screen locked and focused on the object.

As I said, Roman nodded. Nothing to do with us.

Maybe, maybe not, Trent countered darkly. It occurs to me that the Tampies could just as easily have something besides space horse fodder in mind for that rock. Like having the space horse telekene it through our hull.

Roman frowned at him, a vaguely unpleasant sensation creeping into the pit of his stomach. Unthinking prejudice against the Tampies had been growing steadily across the Cordonale in the past few years, and he’d long since resigned himself to its existence. But to find it here on his own bridge…

Lieutenant Nussmeyer, he said quietly, do you have a vector on that meteor yet?

Bearing toward the space horse, sir, the helmer reported, sounding a little uneasy himself. Projected intersect somewhere in the front-end sensory ring.

Trent’s lip twisted. Means nothing, he said, stubbornly defiant. Sir. The Tampies could be planning to throw it at us at the last second, once our guard is down.

Roman cocked his head slightly to the side. "In that case, Commander, make sure our guard doesn’t go down."

Trent held his gaze a second longer, then turned back to his displays without another word. Reaching again to his own controls, Roman turned one of the telescope cameras onto the space horse, keying it to track with the meteor’s projected intercept point. Trent’s paranoia aside, he had no doubt as to what the space horse wanted the rock for…and like the space horse itself, it was something he very much wanted to see. The display shifted slightly as the intercept vector was updated, came to rest on one of the sensory clusters: eight impressively colored organs, each a few square meters in area, grouped around a large expanse of otherwise unremarkable gray skin.

For a moment nothing happened…and then, without warning, all the organs darkened in color and the blank central region abruptly split open, its edges ridging upward in an odd puckering sort of motion. From off-camera the meteor appeared, to drop neatly into the opening. The edges smoothed down, the split vanished, and the organs resumed their original colors.

Secure from alert, Roman ordered, and as the trilling was silenced he looked over at Trent. The other’s back was stiff, angry looking. Probably had hoped the Tampies really were attacking the Dryden.

Had hoped to have his prejudices justified.

I’d like you to run a complete analysis on the event we’ve just recorded, Commander, Roman said into the silence. Concentrate on the meteor movements—vector changes, interaction with local gravitational gradients, and so on. There’s a great deal we don’t know about space horse telekinesis, and it’s a blank area we very much need to get filled in.

Some of the tension went out of Trent’s back. Yes, sir, he said. I’ll get the programs set up right away.

The tension level in the bridge faded noticeably, and Roman permitted himself a moment of satisfaction. A smart commander, he’d once been told, never rubbed a subordinate’s nose in an error when it wasn’t absolutely necessary to do so. In this case, it wasn’t.

Trent might be bigoted; but even bigots sometimes needed to save a little face.

Ambassador Pankau returned twenty hours later…with an agreement that was fully as much a charade as Roman had expected it to be.

The Arachne colonists will be moving their power plant about thirty kilometers further downstream, Pankau said, handing Roman the tapes and signed papers to be filed into the Dryden’s official records. Aside from that, they won’t have to give up all that much.

Roman could feel Trent’s eyes on him. What about the settlement itself? he asked Pankau, accepting the papers. If they’re moving the power plant, won’t they have to move with it?

Pankau grimaced. Some of them will, yes. Not all.

And what, Trent put in, will the Tampies be giving up?

Pankau turned a quietly official glare on him. It just so happens, he said evenly, "that on this one, the Tampies turn out to have been right. The power plant was interfering with the local migration pattern of at least four different species of birds and animals."

Trent snorted. "Any animal that can’t adapt its life around one lousy power plant deserves extinction, he growled. It’s not like the damn ghornheads are actually useful for anything."

Pankau kept his temper, but Roman could see it was a near thing. The ghornheads may not be, no; but the same can’t be said for the mrulla. Which keep the rodunis population down to manageable levels in the fields, and which in turn follow the ghornheads around like adoring puppies. He didn’t wait for comment, but turned back to Roman. "Ccist-paa also tells me they’re having trouble with human poachers grabbing space horses from their Cemwanninni yishyar system."

‘Their’ system? Trent muttered, just loud enough to hear.

Pankau looked back at him, his gaze hardening. "Yes, their system. Like it or not, Commander, the Senate has relinquished all human claims there. The Tampies can make real use of a space horse watering hole; we cannot. Playing dog-in-the-manger is hardly the action of civilized people."

The words came out, Roman noted, with the automatic fluency of a practiced speech. Probably one Pankau had had to deliver a great many times. I think we all understand the Senate’s rationale, he put in before Trent could say something he might later regret. "There are equally valid reasons, I think, why renouncing all claim to a system is, in general, not a terribly good idea."

Well, there’s nothing that can be done about it now, Pankau said, his tone slightly sour. At any rate, Captain, he continued, gesturing at the papers in Roman’s hand, "you and the Dryden now have official Tampy permission to enter the yishyar…and as soon as you drop me back at Solomon you’re to head out there and see if you can catch this troublemaker."

Arachne to Solomon to the yishyar. This just got better and better. I appreciate your attempts to soothe the Tampies, Ambassador—

"My job is not to soothe Tampies, Captain, Pankau cut him off, his voice frosty. It’s to carry out the orders and wishes of the Supreme Senate of the Terran Cordonale—and in this case, the Senate’s codified wishes are that unauthorized human ships stay the hell out of Tampy space. He eyed Roman coldly. Or are you suggesting that I don’t have the authority to send you on such a mission?"

That much, at least, wasn’t in question. Roman had seen Senate cartes blanches before, and was fully aware of the range of powers such papers held. I don’t question your authority at all, sir, he told Pankau. "But we’re talking a pretty long tour here for a ship the size of the Dryden. Two weeks to get you back to Solomon, six weeks or more from there to the yishyar system, plus the six-week return trip. That’s three months right there, plus whatever time we have to spend waiting at the yishyar for your poacher to show up."

Are you suggesting your crew can’t handle a few weeks in deep space? Pankau asked, his tone challenging.

No, sir, Roman said evenly. I’m suggesting that it would save us a couple of those weeks if you’d ask Ccist-paa to take a side trip to Solomon and drop you off.

Pankau seemed a little taken aback. Ah. I see.

Unless, of course, Roman said, looking the other straight in the eye, "you don’t think you can handle a few hours in a Tampy ship."

For a moment he thought the professional facade was going to crack. But Pankau had better control than that. That will hardly be a problem, Captain. If you’ll set up the radio…?

Ten minutes later, it was all arranged. An hour after that, Roman sat at his bridge station and watched the space horse Jump.

It was about the only thing about space horses that was, at least visually, totally unspectacular. One instant the space horse and ship were on the displays; the next instant they were gone.

"I wish to hell we could do that," Trent muttered.

Roman gazed at the display, at the empty spot where the Tampy ship had been. You and everyone else in the Cordonale, he agreed soberly. Totally unspectacular…until you stopped to think about what had actually happened. Instantaneous travel, over interstellar distances…and with no known distance limit except the ability of the space horse to see its target star. The whole concept sent a shiver up Romans back. "Maybe when the Amity project gets started we’ll pick up some insights on how to tame and control them."

Trent snorted. Fat chance. Sir.

Roman eyed him. You don’t think humans and Tampies can learn to work together aboard the same ship, Commander?

I don’t think it’ll ever come to that, sir, Trent said bluntly. "In my opinion, Amity’s nothing but a smoke screen the Tampies and pro-Tampy senators dreamed up to try and look like they’re doing something about the shared-worlds problem. The Starforce’s never going to finish fitting out the ship; and even if they do, odds are the crew will be so badly biased that the results of the test voyage will be completely fraudulent."

And if neither happens…?

Trent looked him square in the eye. "Then, sir…no, I don’t believe humans and Tampies can work together. Not without killing each other."

Roman grimaced. You leave the Cordonale very few options.

Appeasement, or war, Trent agreed quietly. And even a Senate as spineless as this one won’t appease them forever.

Roman looked at the display, at the place where the space horse had been a minute ago, wishing he could argue with any of Trent’s assessment. But he couldn’t. And even if he could, it was clear the other’s mind was already made up.

As were many other minds across the Cordonale.

Just be sure to keep an open mind, Commander, he warned the other. Even to his own ears the words sounded lame. You never know when an alternative may present itself. Until then…we have a mission to carry out. Let’s go track us down a poacher.

Chapter 2

THIS, STEFAIN REESE GROWLED to no one in particular, is starting to get ridiculous.

A wave of tired irritation rippled through the general boredom that had settled in around the Scapa Flow’s bridge crew. From his command chair Chayne Ferrol watched his men glare at Reese or pointedly ignore him, according to individual preference, and stifled a curse of his own. Like everyone else, he was roundly sick of Reese; unfortunately, political necessity dictated that someone remain on speaking terms with the man. ‘Haven’t caught anything in five hours?’ ˮ he quoted the old fisherman’s joke. ‘Don’t worry—I haven’t caught anything in eight hours.’ ˮ

The attempt at humor was wasted. Save it, Ferrol, Reese snorted. I’ve heard that tired old joke at least five times in the last twenty-two days, and it wasn’t funny the first time.

With an effort Ferrol hung on to his temper. "Mr. Reese, we made it very clear to you at the outset what it was you were letting yourself in for. Even a yishyar system doesn’t play host to more than a few space horses at a time, and there are four hundred billion cubic kilometers of asteroid belt out there for them to feed in. You can’t expect one to Jump right in on top of us the first day here."

And yet we’ve had at least fifteen of them Jump in close enough to register on the anomalous-motion program, Reese countered. "You didn’t go after any of them, either."

At the helm, Malraux Demarco stirred. There’s a hell of a lot of difference between picking up a target blip and sneaking up on it, he bit out. "None of us is exactly crazy about floating around out here watching the rocks go by, either. Try not to forget that you asked to come along."

Yes, well it wasn’t exactly my idea, Reese shot back. The Senator wanted me to come and observe—

The slap of Ferrol’s hand on his armrest echoed briefly through the bridge, cutting off the growing argument in mid-sentence. What? Reese demanded, throwing a defiant glare in Ferrol’s direction.

For a long minute Ferrol just stared at the other, watching as the angry defiance faded into discomfort and then into the first twitchings of genuine fear. You are not, he said at last, the words quiet but icy cold, to mention the Senator in connection with this ship, its crew, or its mission. Not here, not anywhere else. Ever. Do you understand?

Reese swallowed visibly. Yes, he said.

Ferrol let the silence hang in the air a moment longer before turning back to Demarco. Did we ever get anything more on that blip Randall picked up and then lost?

Demarco shook his head. The computer’s equipment check came up negative, he said. "It may have been a space horse that Jumped in for

Reviews for Warhorse

[nkmunn · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

More like a 3.5 ? What was missing for me was was humor, interior scene setting and depth of personal relationships. What is there: beauty of space & astronomical phenomena, travel, navigation, psychology, and most interestingly the interplay between two perspectives in conflict over time.